


Ain't That a Kick in the Head

by TwistaLolita



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, Midnight Crew - Freeform, The Felt - Freeform, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistaLolita/pseuds/TwistaLolita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He huffs, concentrating on the cold, dusty concrete that’s pressed up against his cheek. Bloody spit trickles from the side of his mouth as he looks ahead and tries not to panic. If he focuses on the peeling patch of dry wall across the room, the spinning’s almost nonexistent, and he can almost convince himself that he’s okay, that a blade didn’t slice open his lip and a fist hadn’t rammed itself so hard into his left eye that he tumbled to the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't That a Kick in the Head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stunrunner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stunrunner/gifts).



> Thank you to unseenminion for editing!

He huffs, concentrating on the cold, dusty concrete that’s pressed up against his cheek. Bloody spit trickles from the side of his mouth as he looks ahead and tries not to panic. If he focuses on the peeling patch of dry wall across the room, the spinning’s almost nonexistent, and he can _almost_ convince himself that he’s okay, that a blade didn’t slice open his lip and a fist hadn’t rammed itself so hard into his left eye that he tumbled to the ground.

Come to think of it, he can’t really _see_ out of that eye. He arches his eyebrows, trying to raise open his eyelid. Nothing. One more thing he doesn’t want to think about.

Just about as much as he doesn’t want to think about how the wooziness he feels is because the front of his brain literally just smashed into his skull when he fell.

Crowbar once read about the phenomenon of bouts of useless information coming to mind when something particularly bad happens. It’s a sort of mental slap in the face, in a way, like laughing when you’re supposed to be crying.

He also read that the cerebrum of the human brain was divided into several lobes, corresponding with the bone of the same name that covered it. In the parietal lobe, the superior lobe of the brain, there was two large divisions between sensory and motor experiences. The primary motor cortex came in front, and was responsible for legitimately moving parts of the human body; the primary somatosensory cortex came after it, and many studies with open brain surgery proved that this part of the brain could make people feel certain sensations, such as taste or tingling.

In all honesty, he doesn’t exactly know _why_ he’s thinking any these things.

But then again, it could be related that he just received a sharp kick right to the middle of his forehead. He can practically feel the bump forming as a horrible pain shoots across his headand morphs into a throb as it reaches the top of his skull. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, being kicked, and it’s almost surprising, at this instance, that it hasn’t happened before. With someone like Spades Slick, he figures kicking would be a common occurrence.

Or maybe he just doesn’t know Slick as well as he thought.

Speaking of thinking, it was actually difficult to think. As he receives another sharp blow —this time to his cheek— he feels an odd sensation, a strange sort of fuzziness that clouds his head like a mist. He feels his arm move under him, trying to push himself up, knowing he needs to _get up_ , but it feels distant. The arm and the motion and the desire are Crowbar’s, but it’s being experienced through a body that suddenly doesn’t fit right. He feels like he’s in a dream where he’s entirely aware he’s dreaming, but it’s not enough to convince himself to wake up.

The foot that slams into his chin, however, is a good enough wake-up call. Crowbar feels his teeth smash together, hard enough for him to be convinced that something cracked. He rolls over to his side and lets out a grunt.

“What’s wrong, Crowbar?” Slick hisses above him, fists balled at his sides as a bloodied shoe raises itself to deliver another powerful kick. “Are your arms broken, or have you been hiding a secret from me?”

Crowbar manages to prop himself on his elbows, moving his jaw idly to see if it still works in an unhurried manner. He blinks slowly, staring off somewhere beyond the legs of the man who’s in front of him, his head light from his concussion. He’s panting, sure, and his lungs burn from having the air forced out of them, but there’s an odd contentment in his expression.

He lets out a laugh. Stupid, idle, tired. The sound claws at his throat as it travels to escape his lips. The noise tastes like copper.

From above, Slick lets out a snarl, and snatches Crowbar’s collar. He yanks Crowbar upwards with dusty hands and an iron grip, pulls him from his pathetic sprawl onto his knees, and tugs him close to Slick’s face as he chokes him. “Is that it? You like being kicked? Is that what’s so funny?”

Slick’s choking him, and Crowbar should panic. He should try to fight back, shout at him, say something as a comeback, anything to resist, but he can’t. His eyes roll to Slick’s face from their spot on the wall, and seeing Slick’s bared teeth, feeling his snorts across his face, he lets out another chuckle. It sounds foreign to him, distorted by his scratchy, half-crushed vocal cords, and for some reason, it makes him laugh harder. He’s so fucked up and concussed and will probably be bedridden for a few days.

Crowbar senses a strange feeling between them as he laughs. There’s contempt, absolutely, but also a sense of understanding. They hate each other’s guts, and the way the cards are played, they have to. But there’s also potential. Potential for what, Crowbar can’t begin to describe nor articulate, especially not in his current state, but it’s something. It’s somewhat akin to the sensation he experiences when he and Quarters argue. A healthy dose of abhorrence, perhaps?

Slick growls and tosses Crowbar to the ground, and Crowbar feels his head smack hard against the pavement. The impact makes strange flecks of color swim across his eyes.

Definitely bedridden for a few days.

Crowbar does his best to make sure to remember to count the days. They’ll be important the next time they meet.

He’ll make sure Slick will be in his bed twice as long.


End file.
